Page 14 of Single Malt

“Is what an American thing?” I kept my gaze on the wall, as if it would change color out of sheer embarrassment or contrition.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her gesture toward the wall. “Using such a color. It makes me think of that commercial.”

And then she started to sing the “indigestion, upset stomach, diarrhea” jingle.

I cut her off as quickly and politely as I could. “No. This is a ‘people with no taste’ thing.”

She gave me a puzzled look.

“Someone who doesn’t know what looks good,” I explained.

“What will you do?” She walked back to the barstool where she’d been sitting for the past half hour, snapping her gum and doing something on her phone. To my surprise, she actually looked at me as if she wanted an answer.

The problem was, I wasn’t quite sure what to tell her. I’d only realized that this problem existed fifteen minutes ago when I’d pulled off what I believed to be a painter’s sheet. Fortunately, my mind moved quickly, and the first step of how to handle this popped into my head.

“I need to find out who was in charge of having this space painted,” I said as I walked over to where Karina sat.

I’d brought my laptop with me, and I booted it up. Dr. Ipres had a class right now, which meant that calling her was out of the question, and making calls to random department heads most likely wouldn’t accomplish anything aside from annoying the professors.

Another thought followed that one. While it was possible that a specific department had requested that this room be painted, the possibility also existed that the decision had been made by a committee of some kind. I hadn’t really paid much attention to who was in charge of directing the maintenance staff and grounds crew.

Mass email would be the most likely to get me a result. I’d keep it brief to avoid wasting anyone’s time, and it might take a day or two for me to receive an answer, but it was definitely the most efficient way to accomplish what I needed.

To whom it may concern,

The upcoming Greek art exhibit, sponsored by Dr. Ipres, will be taking place in the recently-renovated second-floor space in the Cantor Arts Center. I need to speak with the person or persons who arranged for the work to be done. My contact details are listed below.

Thank you.

I hated writing these sorts of emails. Give me a clear-cut direction and a specific person to communicate with, and I was fine. I had no problem being firm and asking tough questions if I knew I was speaking to the right person.

When it came to diplomacy, however, I wasn’t quite as skilled in written form as I was face-to-face or on the phone. I’d theorized that it was due to my inability to read or convey body language through email and text, but whatever the reason, I struggled with that particular aspect of communication.

“You are asking for help?” Karina’s voice at my shoulder startled me.

“What?”

She pointed at the screen. “You are asking for help.”

The way her statement rubbed me the wrong way made no sense. The words held no malice or even accusation, but I still bristled. Fortunately, I was self-aware enough to know that this was my issue and not hers, even if I didn’t know the exact personal reasons for my response.

“I need information, and this is the most efficient way of getting it,” I explained. “Once I know which person or department approved and hired a company to renovate and paint this room, I can contact the company and ask them about the color scheme choice.”

“You could ask the person who hired them, right?”

I nodded. “I could, but if someone I work with specifically wanted those colors, they might be insulted that I’m asking about it.”

Karina frowned, as if the concept that I didn’t want to butt heads with the faculty was foreign to her. I doubted it was a language issue, though. Even in the very brief amount of time I’d spent with her had revealed a self-centered nature that rarely expressed any consideration or understanding of anything beyond her world.

I could have explained to Karina that, in addition to having most of a semester left where I would need to interact with a member of the faculty, I also hadn’t yet ruled out pursuing a doctorate or a tenure position here. Making the wrong person angry could negatively impact my career path.

Instead, I deflected and then changed the subject. “While I wait for a response, I’m going to go back to my list and see what I can do without needing that information.”

Surprising me, she stayed where she was and watched my every move closely. I ignored her and focused on the work. If she wanted to ask questions, I’d answer them, but I wasn’t her babysitter, and I wasn’t here to entertain her.

“Do you plan these things often?” she asked.

Of course she wanted to talk.